What Happens if I Click “Send”?

Dear Mr. Omar,

We have had it up to here with your waterlogging shenanigans. It’s not just the fact that you douse the toilet seat; it isn’t solely the way you splash the mirror like an exorcist with holy water or that you flood the countertop and make puddles on the floor for some unknown, idiotic reason. It’s worse than that and you are now under fair warning…

If Edita comes to my office ONE MORE TIME to complain about this nonsense, there will literally be hell to pay.  I have no qualms whatsoever about sneaking some bacon grease into your turkey taco at lunch and watching with glee as your strictly anti-pork mouth devours 4 of them, then questions why it tastes so good.  Do NOT think I won’t – remember those delicious empanadas you ate at our Christmas luncheon? The Goya sofrito used in that recipe contains “ham flavor”, my little pancetta-avoiding friend! Though I begged forgiveness for your poor, unknowingly corrupted soul then, that train has definitely left Grand Central.

You were privately chided by (aka you had lunch with your buddy) our Director; Edita bitches loudly within earshot of you; I even made you this nice sign yet you continually ignore our pleas for safe and comfortably dessicated facilities.  Forget that everyone else has adjusted their trajectory in hopeless defeat to head on over to the boys’ room (since you never use that one as it must be against your religion to exit a room and turn left); Edita just will not be bothered to walk the 5 extra steps.  I mean really, why the hell should she when she can save those precious steps for her lunchtime power walk, or to come up to my office to complain?

More evil in this little, pink body than one would think...

More evil in this little, pink body than one would think…

Because of your little nasty habit, Edita stands in my office to once again bitch-and-moan about the downstairs bathroom.  Your sopping wet mess almost caused her to fall down and snap her fragile little neck.  As WE all know, she is most likely exaggerating for dramatic effect, but this is NOT THE POINT.

Can we once-and-for-all give this stupid shit a rest!? I mean, is your own bathroom at home housing beloved fragile orchids or some kind of sacred moss which requires moisture at all times and when you come here, our dry safe bathrooms make you pine for them? Are you OCDing in absentia?? What the ever-loving FUCK!??

Please help me put this issue in the “Dead File” before I sic Jar jar Bitch on you; OR – I break out the bacon bits.

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About LVital7019

Just your normal, everyday 9-5er. An uninspiring position in an inspirational non-profit moves me to constant goof-offery; aimless, on-the-job procrastination; a crankiness that borders on psychosis; and attempting to craft something meaningful with words. Just another so-called-job inspiring someone to feats of insanity with a hint of creativity... (Insert demonic laugh HERE.) View all posts by LVital7019

5 responses to “What Happens if I Click “Send”?

  • El Guapo

    Talk to him privately. It that doesn’t work, just tell him to be neater.
    Loudly.
    In earshot of others.

    Like

  • LVital7019

    Hmm… I’ll pass. He’s a tad too creepy for me lately. Thinks I’m his personal assistant to find American beauty products for his harem in Cairo. Pretty sure someone from A/R would be MORE than willing to knock his block off. I shouldn’t have to handle ALL the crazies around here… 😉

    Like

  • Tony Single

    Ah, that’s your first mistake right there. Signs. NOBODY reads signs. Ever. Even if it’s a honking big one in neon orange with “WARNING” in bold, black typeface. It’s like people are literally blind to them. Must be some kind of modern medical condition. I’m looking into it… 😛

    Like

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Tony Single

artist. wastrel. a quantum of potential.

The Greenwich Village Literary Review

A magazine by writers who love to write for readers who love to read.

The Winter Bites My Bones

The Collected Poems of Dennis McHale: 1981-2016

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